Lost in Darkness
by Muffy Morrigan
Summary: Tag to 5.22 Swan Song. Dean in the moments after the final scene of the finale.


_A/N: I never expected this. It actually cropped up in an instant and demanded its way out. So, I let it out. I haven't read tags for 5.22 yet. I suspected my muse would poke me, and wanted to let her stew. And stew she did, coming up with this in a brain-numbing moment. Thank you all for reading. Title and quoted lyrics are from Within Temptation's Somewhere. _

_WARNING: Spoilers for Swan Song 5.22_

**Lost in Darkness**

_Lost in the darkness, hoping for a sign.  
Instead there is only silence,  
Can't you hear my screams?_

It was cold.

It was so cold, there was no way to warm him. Nothing could strip the chill out of his bones, it was so cold it ached, his chest tight with the pain. Taking a drink, he let the whiskey slide down his throat, and it did nothing to warm him, nothing to ease the tightness in his throat and chest.

It stank.

The gentle warmth of the kitchen, filled with the smells of cooking food and laundry soap nonetheless stank. The odors there could not cover the scent memory of the gate into hell. That scent had been all to familiar and it had filled his mind, filled him to the brink.

He couldn't move.

Once he'd sat in the chair, he was trapped there, unable to move. His muscles refused to work, refused to do anything but mechanically lift the cup full of brown liquor to his mouth. His legs were numb, his hands, there was nothing except that ache deep in his bones. He wanted to move, like he had wanted to move _then _when his brother stood at the threshold of hell and fallen. He'd wanted to follow, at least his brother wouldn't face hell alone, but his body, broken by Lucifer, wouldn't obey the desperate shrieking of his mind.

He was dying.

There no way to stop the pain in his chest, all he could do was hope—he'd given up praying—that the ache would become something more and let his heart stop. It would be easier that way, easier than the slow death he knew would come. Easier than starving, or poisoning himself with alcohol, easier than facing those who would have to watch him die.

_Please let me die. _

He wanted to, more to the point he needed to. He couldn't live, not with the pain, not with the anger, not with the knowing. His brother was gone, no crossroads deal this time to bring him back, nothing he could do, nothing he could change.

He was sorry.

So damn sorry. About everything, every moment, every angry word, or accusation, every off-handed remark that might have injured, every silly prank that might have gone a little to far. Of course, if he said that, his brother would probably laugh and ask if he'd been watching _Oprah _again.

Mostly he was sorry he hadn't plunged into the pit with his brother.

Without thinking, his hand move to where the rings rested in his pocket. The rings that had been left where the gate had been, the rings he'd found when he knelt beside the empty spot that marked his brother's last place on earth. It wasn't a grave, wasn't a 'resting place' just the last place his brother had been alive. The last place his hazel eyes had reflected pain and concern and love.

The rings.

A stray thought wound its way into his pain-numbed brain. Maybe he could use the rings again, open the pit long enough to follow his brother. There were still a lot of _things_ in hell that feared him, were more terrified of him than demons. He knew his way through that stinking maze, he could find his brother and, if not free him, join him there.

He had a plan.

Taking a last sip of whiskey, he went over it again. It would work, it had to work. If there was anything good left in the world, he would be able to get to his brother. Whatever came after that was moot. When they were together, they could face anything and come out triumphant.

_Yeah, right. _

His own voice in his head mocked him for that thought. But in a way it was true. They had won this one, it just wasn't the ending he wanted. He never expected to be here alone, never expected that his brother would have fallen and he would still be here, trapped on a cold, stinking earth filled with never-ending pain.

He was dying.

And he might as well finish the process. Waiting wouldn't change anything. Being here in this warm kitchen full of light and the sweet scent of cinnamon and sugar wouldn't change anything. Nothing could, nothing here at least. A light flashed at the corner of his eye and the pain in his chest increased. It reminded him of that basement where he'd been electrocuted. There had been a spark and then agony.

The pain increased, filling him. He heard a concerned voice from far away, a hand over his as he clutched his chest, the pain becoming agony then becoming something beyond that. He waited for darkness, waited for his heart to explode and free him.

It didn't happen.

Like the flipping of a switch, the pain was gone, leaving nothing but the soft ache its passing. He slumped forward, gasping. Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself up with shaking hands. Why hadn't he died? WHY? The question became a shout. He might had said it aloud, he might have kept it inside, but the word screamed through his head, over and over, becoming a sob sob of sound, the begging plea to just let him die.

He was standing.

He had no idea how or why for a moment, then his mind caught up with his body. Something had moved outside, and a lifetime of instinct had set him into motion. Gesturing quickly to keep the others from moving, to keep them safe, he slipped to his coat and pulled the gun from the pocket. Flipping off the light to let his eyes adjust to the dark outside the house, he waited for a moment and opened the door.

The gun clattered to the ground, the sound as loud as if he had fired. The air was suddenly thick, too thick to draw into his lungs and the ache had returned to his chest. But there was something different about it.

Staring into the night, he focused on what was there. The pale form, the long shadow on the ground cast by the small ambient light. The eyes sparkling in the night reflected horror and pain, a lost look clouding the face.

He'd gone insane.

He had to have lost his mind. Maybe he hadn't died, but he'd gone insane. Tears burned in his eyes as he struggled to breath, but he couldn't. He could hear the blood pounding through his body as he stared, ever fiber of his being held motionless, caught between hope so bright it might kill him after all, and despair that he knew would be the end. The figure was motionless as well. Staring back with that lost and pained expression, looking so much like he had when he was five.

The silence was so loud, nothing could penetrate. Nothing would reach him, he was trapped in this place, silent, staring out at an apparition.

"Dean?" the whisper cut through the air, lost confused, sounding so much like... "Dean?" the whisper came again.

"Sam?" Dean said, stumbling down the steps and running towards his brother.

His brother.

"Dean!" Sam was running to, pulling Dean against him with a sob.

Dean wrapped his arms around Sam, the tears breaking free and slipping over his face. He held onto his brother like a drowning man, like a man pulled from the brink and clasping onto life with a desperation he'd never known. Sam's face was buried in his shoulder like he had when he was a child and terrified beyond thought. Dean held on with a fierceness every bit as strong.

"Sammy," he whispered. "You're home."

_**The End**_


End file.
